


all's fair in love and war

by nayt0reprince



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Add. Characters to Come, Everything is Sylvain's Fault, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Golden Deer Route spoilers, M/M, Post-Timeskip, Rarepair, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, mature language, referenced character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: except for the womanizer sylvain, of course. he is unfair in all meanings of the word - in his so-called charming personality, in his stunningly aesthetically-pleasing good looks, in his title. he has it all. ignatz wants nothing to do with any of it.so, as the fates ordained it, therefore he unfortunately must.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Ignatz Victor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. nocking point

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t take any responsibility for this. blame it on dev. they pioneer this ship, I just happen to be a crew member, and thus this came into existence, okay? okay. cool beans. pls enjoy, and lemme know what u think!
> 
> update schedule will be on monday's in the evening ~5PM.

Prior to the war, Ignatz could count the number of interactions with the infamous Sylvain on one hand. In fact, if a bandit happened to lob Ignatz’s hand off, it would still accurately account for all their conversations outside of a quick “hello.” They hailed from different houses within Garreg Mach, grew up on nearly opposite ends of Fódlan, and existed in separate social classes. They possessed next to nothing in common (aside from their appreciation of women’s beauty, in which - as Ignatz came to learn from Sylvain’s lackluster reputation - even that differed). 

They were strangers and bore no intent of becoming more than that.

And yet.

***

Five years ravaged the Goddess’s gifts, tarnishing them with flames and bloodshed. The once-impenetrable Church now lay in ruin, its mighty domed cathedral shattered and adorned with rubble. Restoration in the midst of too many battles made progress painstakingly slow. Everyone had duties to fulfill with Hilda at the helm, commandeering the restocking of supplies while Claude juggled the impractical nobles fracturing the Leicester Alliance. No one spared a thought to the beautification of Garreg Mach. 

Ignatz took advantage of this by stealing spare time to paint its remains.

Yes, five years ago, younger Ignatz would be appalled - horrified, even - at the absolute destruction of Fódlan’s greatest landmark. Well, even now he was. However, such opportunities to capture integral scenes surrounding the war were few and far between, and what better way to depict its tragedy with where it all started? He adjusted the easel’s location several times, head tilting to determine what best angle to get the cathedral while his brain clunked away to determine what colors to use. Cooler or warmer? 

That could be shelved for now. He still needed to complete _penciling_ first. And before _that,_ he needed the right angle. Focus! His eyes narrowed, high noon’s sunlight beating upon his brow. A low hum rumbled in his throat, and, with another dissatisfied _tsk,_ he rearranged the easel one more time. This angle was more traditional, three-fourths composition, plain. He needed something more - more -

“What’re you doing?”

The lighthearted question intruded and scattered all of Ignatz’s artistic mechanisms into the hidden recesses within his mind as an undignified _squawk_ escaped him. The pencil flew from his fingertips as he jumped, shoulders hackled and eyes darting behind him. 

Sylvain caught the pencil with his left hand, whistling. He grinned.

“Whoa there,” he said, offering the pencil, “it’s just little ol’ me.”

And by little, he meant almost a whole head taller than Ignatz. He wordlessly accepted his flightful pencil and shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to almost hit you with this,” he said.

“Even turned around, you’ve got pretty good accuracy, you know that?” Sylvain laughed and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. You drawing?”

The tone was casual, if not flippant - but at the very least, not accusatory nor angry at Ignatz “wasting” his time. He set the pencil down on the easel’s lip. “Well, I’m trying to,” he answered, forcing a chuckle through his admitted defeat. “It’s not going as well as I hoped, though. What, um, brings you up here, Sylvain?”

“Just a stroll for the sights.” Sylvain leaned against the stone fence, fingers rapping along the cracks. He ran a hand through the tangles of his hair. “Really, I’m just shirking training. Everyone tells me to take it more seriously, but to be honest? It’s _them_ taking it _too_ seriously. Don’t you think so?”

“I’m,” Ignatz shifted his weight from one foot to the other, gaze shifting back to his empty (mocking) canvas, “unsure, really. I often train alone.”

“Ah, the life of an archer. Can’t really pelt your friends to death with arrows, now can you? But you’ve taken up a sword lately.” 

It wasn’t a question, but a statement - as if Sylvain were all too aware of the secret rendezvous Ignatz made with the training grounds, picking up a wooden sword and whacking away at the still dummies until they bled frayed straw. His mouth opened, then closed, before fidgeting with his glasses quite like when he was but a school boy. Old habits die hard. Ignatz needed to stab harder. 

“Hey, no need to get so clammed up about it. I think it’s a good thing, broadening your horizons and stuff. But I don’t think you’d get very far by _yourself,_ so,” and in a tumble of words that appeared to shock Sylvain as much as it shocked Ignatz, “why not give it a whirl with me?”

“With,” Ignatz stared, “you.”

“Better you than Felix. What do you say? It’s a win-win. I get my ‘training’ in so they shut up about it, and you get better at lobbing limbs off. Pretty good deal, if I say so myself.” He nodded, stroking his own chin at his own self-deduced brilliance. “Guess the winds of fate are smiling on me to have me run into you, eh?”

A few potential red flags cropped up in Ignatz’s mind. For one, Sylvain needed to train more like he needed another girlfriend - wildly unnecessary, given his skills, and often led to him getting cocky. Of course, those like Felix and Ingrid were insatiable with their drive for getting stronger, and complained about Sylvain’s lackadaisical approach to his performance. But really, of all the cavalry in the Leicester Alliance’s army, Sylvain had to be in the top percentage. For two, given his sly nature, Ignatz doubted this simply was a chance encounter brought about by fate. For three - actually, those two reasons were enough for him.

“What do you _really_ want, Sylvain?” he asked. 

“Harsh. You think I have some ulterior motive?”

“Who do you think I worked with for over five years now? The Golden Deer are all about schemes. I know one when I see one.” 

“I kinda dig this new Ignatz. Before, you used to be so meek that I thought you’d _never_ get laid. Now you’re a looker _and_ have half a backbone.” Sylvain winked. “I can be your wingman if you want. Between the two of us? We can -”

“Sylvain.” _A looker?_ Ignatz almost stammered over his interjection, but remained firm. “Please, just - just tell me what it is you want.”

“Fine, fine.” Sylvain held up his hands in the air in acquiescence. “This is gonna sound totally crazy, so just bear with me, alright? And don’t lose your cool on me, either. Truth is, I’ve been looking for you. I kinda messed up.”

What a surprise! Sylvain Gautier, man voted most likely to end up face down in a ditch somewhere, messing something up? Who would’ve thought. Ignatz bit down the biting sarcastic narrator who lately kept cropping up in random soliloquies taking up the stage in his mind. “Messed up,” he decided to say instead. “Messed up… how, exactly?”

“Okay, so here’s the deal. You’re an artist, right? Picture, uh, the village just past the outskirts of Garreg Mach. It’s a nice spring day. You, Hilda, and Ashe are trying to get some decent grub after a long morning of chores. With me so far? Okay, so you’re chit-chatting in line, and this woman you don’t remember storms up to you in a tizzy, being all ‘why won’t you marry my daughter’ and blah blah blah. Meanwhile, I’m just standing there, starving and wanting this conversation to be _done_ with. So I turn to this lady and say, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m engaged.’”

“You are? Congratulations.”

“What? No. Of course not. Are you kidding me? Anyways. But, so, I say that, and Ashe looks at me all wide-eyed when the woman asks, ‘Who is she so I can let her know what it is you’ve done to the apple of my eye’ bladdity blah. My first options are my food companions. But the thing is, I know neither of them would collaborate on my story. So, I kinda just, well, blurted out a name.”

Oh no. Ignatz’s visual play-by-play froze mid-image: an old woman barking at a tired Sylvain, a bunch of random witnesses, two of his comrades standing there with wide eyes and wider ears. Sylvain’s lips were taut, ready to damn one of his companions into being his fake fiance. He took a step back, already beginning to shake his head. “Sylvain,” he whispered, devoid of all emotion sans horror. 

“Figured it out, yeah? Look, I’m _really_ sorry. Really. I was tired, I wasn’t thinking straight. I would’ve said Felix’s name for shits and giggles, but you know me. Can’t even control a horse right.” A lie, but that didn’t matter right now. “So, yeah. There’s the gist of it. Want to hear the worst part?”

“The,” Ignatz managed, feeling the wind kicked right out from his lungs, “ _worst_ part?”

“Hilda chimed in and announced the day of our hypothetical wedding.”

Ignatz survived a myriad of things: getting ambushed in the woods, staving off demonic beasts that oozed putrid flesh from their mighty jaws, and even stared down an armored commander beneath Empress Edelgard’s command all on his own. But this - this sudden proposal he wasn’t even _around_ for, one that had him marrying a _noble,_ for Goddess’s sake - all this information barraged him much too quickly. 

“Is this a joke?” he managed.

“Sure isn’t.”

“Why,” he wheezed, “did you say _my_ name instead of a _woman’s?_ ”

“Figured it’d better my chances to get the old bat off my back if I said a man’s. But now she’s gone and invited herself to our wedding, believe it or not. Anyways, Hilda’s gone around and enacted her revenge against me calling her out on her crap. She’s told everyone who’ll listen, which, as you know, is anyone interested in her ‘assets.’ Now everyone’s asking about us, how we met, so on, so forth. And if I back down, that woman’s going to kill me. So, Ignatz.”

His mind was a whirlwind. He teetered back against the crumbling guard rail. This couldn’t be happening. “I’m _not_ going to go along with this,” he said at last. 

“Yeah. I figured you’d say that.” Sylvain scratched the back of his head, eyes shifting to the horizon. “So, here’s another kicker. You know I’m technically a noble, right. So it’s kind of a big deal when word spreads around about an engagement. Letters get sent, important people get informed…”

“Just please get to the point!”

“Alright, alright. Thing is, people who know people sent out letters to both my family and your own to let them know. Funny how fast people are when it comes to things like this, right? If only war could be so quick.”

His face paled. He had to be dreaming. Of course he had to be - none of this would ever happen in reality. For what reason would Sylvain come up with _Ignatz’s_ name first? He’d pick someone like Leonie, or Ingrid, or Marianne. Surely not _Ignatz._ The wind in his hair, the bird calls, the warmth of the sunlight against his sweating skin - all of it, conjured by his lucid and overactive imagination. He pinched himself once, twice, three times, all to no avail. 

“You gonna be okay? I have a plan, you know.”

“Plan? _Plan?_ You have a plan about a - _our_ marriage that has a set _date_ and my _parents_ are going to be _informed_ because you couldn’t just - you always have to avoid taking the blame for your own _actions?”_ Goddess above, his voice never squeaked so high in his life, even during puberty. “I - I don’t even know you, Sylvain! We just fight together, and that’s all! How can you even think of me _first_ as a suggestion -”

“I hear you, I really do. Look. I’ll make it worth your while. I’ve got connections with connections. There’s this man who’s been all over the world - Fódlan and beyond - who’s a renowned artist. Ever heard of _The Lady of Grace?_ ”

Heard of it? Anyone in the artistic world sang its praises to the highest heavens. The brushwork held a delicate balance of gentility and mastery, modest yet bold. His works were everything Ignatz ever dreamed of, an inspiration to his very own style, a push in the artistic direction despite knowing his duties resided elsewhere. He poured hours over art theory books in dim candlelight because of happening upon a _glimpse_ of _The Lady of Grace._

He cleared his throat. Readjusted his glasses. “I may have?”

“Well, as fortune has it for _you,_ Iggy - mind if I call you that?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Ignatz,” Sylvain corrected, then hooked an arm around his neck. “I can arrange you two to meet. Spit art theories, all that fun stuff. That is, if you help me out. Trust me, I can get this all fixed, but it might take a bit of time.”

“You think you can _bribe_ me to help you.”

“Correction. I know I can. I know that ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ eyes sparkly look from anywhere. You want to meet the guy, and I can give you that. But,” he unlatched his arm and squeezed Ignatz’s shoulders, “there’s gonna be a bit of _take_ from me, too. How about it? My plan takes all of three months, tops.”

“Three _months,_ ” he repeated, horrified. 

“One month for marriage prep,” Sylvain held up his fingers, counting them down, “one month for our marriage just to sell it, and one month for a squeaky-clean divorce. After that, we go back to our daily lives and never have to mention this again. I know the Goddess’s teachings frown on that, but I’m sure Her Divine Presence can make an exception for me just this once.”

If the Goddess bore witness to all things unholy, then She committed _many_ oversights for Sylvain’s sake already, given his ill repute. “Aren’t you underestimating? We are at war right now. Nothing follows timetables while we’re marching to the Empress’s drum.” Heavens above, which meant they needed to be married for longer. Ignatz hardly gave much thought to the prospect of _romance,_ let alone making vows.

“It’ll work out. Maybe. But hey, look on the bright side.” And there resurfaced Sylvain’s signature grin, of which Ignatz now understood what made it appear so _punchable_ to the likes of Felix. So nonchalant, so whimsical, despite the absolute horrific nature of their situation. “Even if it does take longer, you’ve got an attractive man at your beck and call to draw whenever you want. You like portraits, right?”

“Of the _Goddess._ ” 

“Ehn, Goddess, one Sylvain Gautier, what’s the difference. At least I’m tangible.” 

The nightmare of a conversation continued at an abysmal speed, faster than Leonie’s whirling gut-punch. _Can’t spell Sylvain without ‘vain,’_ his thought supplied unhelpfully. He took in a sharp breath. Counted to three. Closed his eyes, allowed his anxiety-riddled body to relax for those fleeting seconds, before opening them again to face the harsh reality of one man’s monumental drive to avoid consequences for his own actions. Nothing really was stopping him from walking away. What was one more old woman whacking Sylvain upside the head with an iron skillet? 

At the same time, Ignatz - for all his perpetuated “half a backbone,” as Sylvain ever-so-eloquently called it - lacked the courage to tell his parents _no,_ _I am not actually marrying a noble._ A merchant’s dreams thrived on connections. The Gautiers undoubtedly had plenty in Faerghus (or its remains). To give up a chance for the Victor family to spread their trade throughout Fódlan (especially if Fódlan _united_ ) would be foolish, even if it was temporary.

Everything he did, after all, was for his family’s sake. If not for the sent letters, the choice would be obvious. If not for his older brother, he would have pursued becoming a painter instead of a knight. What feeble resolve he possessed to live on his own terms could never scale the cliffs of high expectations.

Of course, those expectations probably paled in comparison to that of a noble’s. Ignatz often listened to the blatherings of Lorenz and his “duties” time and time again - often boiling down to the need to woo a fine lady for the “Gloucester future.” He blinked, question on his lips - _Is your family going to even allow this to happen?_ \- before realizing, _Ah. You technically defected._ and then, _Why send them a letter at all if you left everything behind? Is your position still that important to you in House Gautier even though you fight with us?_

He supposed those were all problems Sylvain needed to handle. In the end, it wouldn’t affect Ignatz’s precarious position in any way. He was back at square one in the maze of “how am I going to get out of this.” _Listen to me,_ he thought, almost wanting to smile, _I’m starting to sound like a real strategist. Fitting for a knight._

“We’re going to march in two weeks to intervene with the garrisoning of the Empress’s troops at Fort Merceus,” he said at last, adjusting his glasses. “At the very least, no one is going to give our… engagement,” he tripped up over the word, “much thought when making preparations.”

“So you’ll do it?” His eyebrows raised as his eyes widened a fraction.

“I want it written down,” Ignatz said. “What you said, about letting me meet the _Lady of Grace’s_ artist.”

“Ignatz, Ignatz, _Ignatz._ ” Sylvain’s baffled laughter came at a surprise. Did he anticipate a rejection? Surely he had to have known Ignatz’s position - then again, they barely knew anything about one another. “I’m a man of my word. It will be done.”

_If you were a man of your word, why do you keep giving false promises to those poor women who are head-over-heels for you?_ Ignatz shook his head. “In pen, Gautier. And with a signature. Just - just in case.”

He nodded, half-listening. “Yes, _dear._ You know something,” he continued, missing Ignatz’s choking at the use of a pet name, “we can really have fun with this mess if we play our cards right. I’m sure Felix’s face would screw in on itself so hard if he ever ‘accidentally’ caught us making-out, you know?”

“We are _not_ kissing,” Ignatz sputtered.

“We kinda have to at least once during the ceremony. But, alright.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, gaze shifting to the ramshackled church. “None of that, unless you want to practice ahead of time -”

“ _Sylvain._ ” The Goddess have mercy on him. He forced himself to stare at his blank canvas, readying the pencil with shaking hands. All delusions of being able to draw today were dashed to smithereens, but he needed to cling to something familiar in the torrent of absolute nonsense. He felt the telltale rumblings of his stomach, urging him to drop the endeavor and go get some food, but Raphael would more than likely be there. Raphael, with his loud, inquisitive, well-meaning voice, who’d ask across the whole hall _Hey, Ignatz! You’re getting married? Congratulations!_

He rubbed his temples. If the Goddess _had_ any mercy, She would have had him smote during the battle for Myrddin. Perhaps She was a bit of a prankster and found amusement in whatever _this_ was.

“I’m starving again.” Sylvain had the audacity to stretch. “Wanna come with and get something? Think the Professor and Manuela are working on it today.”

Ignatz opened his mouth, closed it, then let out a deep, pitiful sigh.

_Might as well get this over with. The sooner, the better - or else you’ll never eat again._

“All right,” he said, and, after breaking down his set-up, took his first hesitant step into a future of becoming Ignatz Gautier.


	2. string

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy y’all, thank you for coming by for another chapter of whatever the heck this is. I greatly appreciate y’all giving this a shot and the kind comments/kudos you left! so, without further ado, let’s get on with chapter two! rating updated due to language.

If Sylvain attained mastery of any three things, he would list them as follows:

1\. The noble guise of how to approach the opposite sex and the fair words to woo them with;

2\. Fucking someone’s brains out;

3\. Turning out to be an abysmal disappointment, of which he cared oh so much about in his spare time (really. Really, he didn’t. It didn’t matter).

He could perform these three in succession with rapid efficiency. House Gautier, for all its lovely poise in being one half of Faerghus’s backbone, enabled him to weaponize his flowery teachings to hurdle himself into a never-ending conquest of self-destruction. Slowly. And not on purpose. If it happened, it happened; no skin off his nose in the end. In truth, he surprised himself evading his own imminent demise for the past five years. Dimitri was sentenced to death, the Holy Kingdom became a clusterfuck in the control of a dame with breasts larger than Sylvain’s head, and his house comprised the last of the resistance against her and the Empire.

So, when the opportunity arose - when the whimsy of a memory decided to prance in his exhausted brain - to return to the fallen Garreg Mach to fulfill some stupid promise of a class reunion, he shrugged his shoulders, said “sure, why not,” and mounted his horse to ride with Ingrid all the way back in the hopes that maybe they’d get unlucky.

Luck always favored the Gautiers, however. Mikhail lasted that long grasping a Relic Weapon for a reason when his willpower ought to have succumbed the moment his pitiable hands wrapped around its shaft. 

On the promised day, he - and every other student that made up the Golden Deer - returned. In one piece, with not a single person missing. Claude, donned in brilliant golds and with a warm smile that made the sun look bad, greeted them all with open arms. Their old professor, clad in blacks and frigid as bedrock, somehow evaded death from falling off a cliff. Seeing them all together made Sylvain feel like a fraud; he joined the class in the twilight months before everything went to hell in a handbasket.

Oh well. Seeing a handful of familiar faces felt better than being isolated in the north of a kingdom hemorrhaging from the inside-out. He meandered through the church’s ruins, striking up conversations with those he remembered and appropriate nods to those he didn’t. 

It was in the dusty halls of the old lecture room where he realized, in retrospect, he should have stayed away.

He held a lackadaisical view of the Goddess, and a worse one around Fate. Both of which thereby decided to enact revenge against him as he strode through the doorway to bear witness to the huddled cloaked figure his brain determined to be _oh, Ignatz._

_Ignatz?_

Ignatz. He recalled the meek four-eyes often lurking in the corners, smiling politely and lacking all facades of a commanding presence. But this Ignatz - one who hunched over a desk that stood tall amidst its toppled brethren scattered throughout the room - in all his effort to appear small exuded a new aura that demanded Sylvain to pay attention.

He paused mid-step, eyes sweeping over the broadened back muscles that belonged on someone like Felix. His lips parted. Ignatz hummed in thought - his high-pitch voice was but a shadow in the depths of his new one - before rising from his seat. He turned, and - 

_Well_ hello, _beautiful._

Sylvain resorted to what he knew best when confronted with such a conundrum: grinning in acknowledgement and giving a short wave despite Ignatz’s bewildered eyes widening a fraction at the intrusion. “Just me,” he said, then - “Wrong room. Sorry.”

And he left it at that. Intended to, at any rate. His flightful attraction to men wasn’t a secret to his psyche. Sure, he checked out Felix once or twice, and he allowed his gaze to roam over the likes of Claude, but men didn’t quite fit with what he (and his family, all things considered) liked. At least, none of the men he knew up to that very intersection of time. He whistled to himself, fingers interlaced behind his head, replaying Ignatz’s soft look of surprise in his mind. A round face, big eyes, gentle lips chewed from thought, yet with the body of a sturdy tree trunk. A walking, enticing contradiction.

_If only his chest was just a smidge bigger,_ he lamented, _then we’d be in business._

So he shelved the thought away in his catalogue of “decent, but not quite.” With any luck, the assessment would remain dormant until a sword drip-drip-dripped with the last of the Gautiers’ bloodline.

Therefore it wouldn’t.

***

“What have you _done,_ ” said Ingrid.

News got around fast. Sylvain quirked an eyebrow, pausing mid-polish of a silver spear’s nice and shiny tip. “Today? Quite a bit, actually. You’re welcome for covering stable duty, by the by.”

The corner of her upper lip twitched. Her green eyes blazed with righteous fury. She took in a slow, deep, calculated breath, hands opening and closing as if to determine how hard and where she wanted to deck Sylvain into unconsciousness. Instead, she latched onto the spear’s shaft and yanked it clean out of his hands before setting it on the nearby weapon’s rack. 

“One. I didn’t ask you to. Two. You know what I’m talking about.” 

“Do I?” His eyebrows raised in feigned surprise.

“Don’t make playing dumb with me one of the last things you do, Gautier.” She threw her hands up in the air, a deep growl emanating from her chest. “For how long have I known you. Since we were children. And this! This, of _all_ things you have ever done, even up to and including you flirting with my _grandmother,_ has _got_ to be the stupidest thing you’ve ever had the _audacity_ to do!”

“That’s not very nice.” He pursed his lips. “You’re just assuming I’m playing around. My engagement could be very much real, you know.”

“Is it now! Well, could have fooled your very own _fiance._ ” She spat the word with vehement disgust at the very prospect of Sylvain having one. “By the Goddess, Sylvain. He is one of our valuable comrades, and this is how you repay him for saving your skin countless times. If you took your pretend impending marriage as seriously as your training, maybe you wouldn’t keep ending up in such messes.”

“Hey. I _gave_ him a chance to say no. He decided to roll with it. Who am I to dissuade him?” He let out a punctual yawn just to piss her off further. He was rewarded with her cheeks fuming red. “If it makes you feel any better, it won’t be for very long. Promise.”

“That is not the _point._ Sylvain,” she tapped her foot, bit her bottom lip, then decided to take a seat next to him. She tilted her head back, glaring at the ceiling, but it lost some of its ferocity. “I thought you were better than this,” she continued, “thought you maybe didn’t completely give up on what it is you _really_ want.”

“You know how things are with me.” He cocked his head to the side, winking. “Two steps forward, one step back.”

“That’s not how - no.” Her frown deepened. “I know you better than that. _You_ know you better than that.”

“Then you _clearly_ overestimate what I’m capable of.”

“I know what you’re capable of, and so do you. And it’s not this game you’re playing, Sylvain.” Her hands splayed out on her thighs, fingertips toying with the hem of her skirt. A beat of silence stretched on for too long, and he almost stood up to leave when she said, “They said there’s a banner claiming to be the remnants of the old Kingdom that passed Myrddin.”

Right. That. The information Judith passed along after their victory upon the great bridge almost winded him when she initially revealed it. He inhaled slowly. 

“You think it’s him,” she elaborated, voice low. Her eyes shifted to his hands, which now balled into fists by his sides. “We might,” she started, but allowed the sentence to end abruptly. He understood her implication: _If it really is Dimitri - and Dedue - and if all our forces convene on Gronder like Claude thinks, then we’ll have to face him. We’ll have to kill him. Remember how it felt, watching Ferdinand fall to the spear your brother filched from the very Church you’re now allied with? You might have to do the same to our childhood friend that we abandoned, even though he should already be dead from his execution. Isn’t this some kind of twisted joke? What a reunion, huh?_

“If you’re looking for a distraction from the truth, you really shouldn’t pull Ignatz or anyone else into your own wallowing by committing to stupid things like a wedding. You should _talk_ to us. To me. To Felix.” She gripped his shoulder. Squeezed. It didn’t feel like anything. “We’re with you. Don’t - don’t just slip back into what’s familiar when you’ve accomplished this much.”

Familiar? This was, in fairness, the first time he ever got married. He had no idea what he was doing. Uncharted territory built upon flirtatious whimsies still possessed an air of uncertainty. ( _Why didn’t_ I _bail?_ )

“And what have I accomplished?” He shrugged off her hand and grinned, though not an ounce of humor reached his eyes. “Since you’re here, you’re probably looking to train, yeah? Don’t let me stop you with my ‘problems’ that you’ve decided to try to fix again.”

“Sylvain,” she started, but he gave her a quick wave and strode toward the broken doors of the training grounds. 

She didn’t pursue him.

***

They used to play so many games, as kids. The four of them. Felix cried whenever he lost. Ingrid puffed out her chest with indignation as she admonished someone for misbehaving. Sylvain joked and messed around, never taking things seriously. And Dimitri. Oh, Dimitri. His gentle, lighthearted laughter replayed in Sylvain’s memories, soft enough to pretend to be soothing but not quite enough to stave the insufferable gut punch it delivered him with each of its melodic notes haunting his dreams. Simpler times, somewhat happier times. 

After Edelgard’s declaration of war, nothing would be the same. He knew that. He saw it in the turbulent ocean that brewed in Dimitri’s angered eyes, pupils dilating upon seeing the Adrestian Empire march upon Garreg Mach’s front door step. The shaft of his spear splintered in his grip that day, five years ago. Sylvain had fetched him another one, a sturdier one in the hopes it would last the remainder of the seemingly never-ending battle. But that one broke, too; and another, and another, and another - one upon the skull of a man, one upon gutting an armored soldier as the tip splintered right through his backbone, one cracking in three as it connected with an archer’s neck.

That was the Dimitri they had to face. If, in fact, he was still alive, and it was not a mere facade of a ghost-army prancing about with his maddened shadow at the helm.

Two weeks. In class, two weeks dragged on like Professor Hanneman’s lectures. Time now refused to stop, hurdling over the cliffside and into the jagged spires of damnation’s tendrils. Thinking about it didn’t help. Ignoring it didn’t help, either. Sylvain could only hope that maybe - just maybe - the whole thing was some elaborate ruse, after all.

(“Are you sure you want to be here?” asked the former professor, ever concerned about everyone’s wellbeing. Their steeled eyes flickered with worry. “If you have other duties, I will not and cannot fault you for returning.”)

His only duties resided here now. There was nothing to return to anymore.

His feet led him to the dock overlooking the popular fishing spot. Cats in abundance sprawled out in the dying light, well-fed and content. Knights shuffled by in patrol, chit-chatting about the impending battle as they wandered by. Fishing rods leaned against the (somehow unscathed) fishing shack, a note plastered on the wall reading, “Please return after use.” Well. He nabbed one, looking over its machinations; he never fished properly before, and hardly understood the appeal, but today was addled with impulses.

Thus, he found himself struggling to hook bait. Tongue sticking out, brow furrowed in determination to get the damn pond snail to stick.

“Need help with that?”

An angel in orange graced him with a courteous-enough smile, albeit her eyes twinkled with faint amusement at his futile efforts. He returned it with a lopsided grin, holding up a pond snail. “Oh, mighty fish warrior Pinelli, please teach me your ways.”

“Okay, but only if you quit it with the ‘mighty’ stuff.” She snorted and sat beside him, her dexterous hands hooking the bait with ease. He commited it to memory, the exact hand movements, the way she showed him how to cast the line and reel in a mighty snapper. The fish flopped in her hands, its scales glittering in the twilight.

“Like so. Did you want to gut it?”

“Nah. I’m more just doing it to kill time, not to scavenge food.” 

She replied with a slightly disappointed “hm,” then allowed the fish to return to the pond. Her gaze shifted to the ripples it left behind. “I heard about you and Ignatz,” she said as Sylvain imitated her bait-hooking technique. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” It didn’t sound genuine.

“If you do _anything_ to him,” Ah, there it was, “anything that makes him hurt or upset, I’m going to warn you: I _will_ replace Shamir’s spider drawings with drawings of your head for practice. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a story to that, and Sylvain ached to ask her to elaborate. _Spiders?_ Maybe another time, when she wasn’t in the midst of being the protective not-older-sister. “Loudly.”

“I’m sure you already know this, being his lover and all.” She watched as the line sailed across the pond, connecting with the water with a mighty “plop.” She nodded. “Right, like that. Given how clear the water is here, try to keep an eye out for any that approach, but don’t reel it in too quick. What was I saying?”

“Being his lover and all,” Sylvain repeated. The way _lover_ tumbled off his lips felt foreign. He referred to his lays-of-the-day to simpler, less meaningful pet-names, ones that were as interchangeable and meaningless as the faces he cooed over. Either she was humoring him, or she genuinely believed in this unforeseen development - both of which didn’t make much sense. Then again, Leonie - being the blunt and direct woman she was - didn’t seem to have much experience in this field to begin with. Her partners ranged from bows to lances.

She nodded. “Right.” Peeling off her boots, she dipped her feet into the water, leaning back on her arms. “He’s not exactly used to being the center of anyone’s attention, let alone a noble’s. Commonfolk like he and I are more or less unaccustomed to your fancy ways, so don’t overwhelm him with all that at once. Too quick,” she said as he pulled the line. He recast. “And teasing him too much can make him self-doubt about his own capabilities. And if he starts with the self-deprecating, you can just divert the conversation elsewhere and sneak in a few compliments that aren’t obvious compliments to make him feel better.”

“You talk like you’re a true Ignatz expert.”

“We’ve been friends long enough that I know what he’s like.” She paused. “But I never anticipated you two being together. That caught me off-guard.”

“What, do you think I’m not handsome enough to be his type?” He winked, but she obviously missed his little jest.

“That’s not it.” She shook her head. “It’s just, I imagined Ignatz to be courting with someone like Marianne. Someone…” She trailed off in thought. Sylvain anticipated for her to continue with something like _Someone much less of a skirt chaser,_ but in a surprising twist, she continued, “someone that matched his quiet wavelength, you know? I never imagined him to be with someone as extroverted as you are.”

Extroverted? Well, he mastered the craft of conversation and yucked it up to flatter others like the best of them. Did that make him an extrovert? He hummed a bit, eyes darting back and forth to follow the current target’s movements. It circled the bait curiously, but not quite committed to snapping at it. Yet. “Maybe it’s just an opposites attract thing,” he answered. 

“I wonder.”

The fish, at last, chomped down on the poor pond snail, and Sylvain - after a great, triumphant struggle ( _how does the Professor do this for fun?)_ \- reeled in his first catch. Its small size made the afterglow feel a bit lacking, but hey, he did it. Leonie clapped, and he released the little buddy back into the water. Another snail found itself on the hook.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Mm?”

“What attracted you to Ignatz?”

The line sailed with much less confidence. Ah. Yeah, he should have an answer prepared for something like this. It was an inevitable question, one he would need to rehearse for the next two months. He allowed himself to smile, as if reflecting upon the question like a man drenched in infatuation with another. He’d seen enough plays back in Faerghus to know what it looked like. To someone like Leonie, it would be enough. 

“Have you _seen_ him?” he replied. “He grew up into - into that.” He gestured with his free hand. 

“Into…” Leonie tilted her head, puzzled. 

“He’s attractive. Okay? He got really attractive. I used to think he looked like a bug.”

“A _bug._ ” Oh. Maybe that was a little too much. Sylvain backpedaled. 

“His face wasn’t fleshed out for the glasses he wore, and his hair stylist did a terrible job back then. No fault of his own, obviously.” His elaboration staved Leonie’s impending wrath a little bit. Her eyes relaxed from its dagger-glaring just a fraction, but her lips remained in a thin, unamused line. “But now, he’s just.” He whistled. “He can _get_ it. A little confidence really does do wonders. And years.” Not necessarily a lie, perse. Selling the truth a little dressed up worked better than keeping track of falsities.

“And?”

He blinked. “And?”

“What else?” She cocked an eyebrow, lips pursed. “There has to be more to it, right?”

There does? Marriage prospects for nobles like himself often relied on the shallowness that they were known for: appearances. Lorenz, obviously, was a bizarre exception, who so boldly strode in the noble-tude name that he actually _was_ noble in both intentions and in heart. Sylvain felt sorry for him. How much effort did it take to get to that point? There were so many easier roads to walk, ones with less disappointment and heartache. Pick a lady and get it over with. No need for true love nonsense to get in the way of a marriage’s real purpose.

Leonie stared. Oh. She was still waiting? He made an appropriate thoughtful noise, thumb rubbing over the reel seat. His brain scrambled for all the little tidbits and information on Ignatz he gathered in the few interactions with him he had. 

“I,” he started. Sheesh. Being put on the spot like this made him wonder if he was on trial for treason or something. He needed to deflect. “It’s kind of embarrassing sharing things like that with someone I don’t know, don’t you think?”

“Really? Even though you shared your little ‘conquests’ with every person who’d listen at the lunch table? Compared to that, I’d think this is a cakewalk.” 

“Hey, I didn’t brag about that. If it got brought up, it got brought up.” 

“If you’re really just marrying Ignatz for his looks,” she continued, undeterred, “and he likes you for something more, you’re going to _wreck_ him and his trust. Do you understand me, Sylvain?” She leaned forward. This close, he could see the veins in her neck bulge. Goddess, what was with everyone getting on his case today? “He doesn’t think like that. He appreciates aesthetics, sure, and the beauty that comes with it, but Ignatz also pours his whole heart into liking things. From art to friends. To _you._ ”

She lacked critical information. Ignatz didn’t - and undoubtedly never would - like Sylvain in that manner, but the forcefulness of her words made him question if he was committed to a ruse at all. The idea of someone liking Sylvain with their whole heart was hilarious and unsettling. No such person existed. Not even in Ignatz. Another sucker chomped at the hook, and, after a moment’s deliberation, he decided to let the fish get away. He reeled his prizeless line back in.

“It’s good he has friends like you,” he answered. “To keep an eye on him. But we’re engaged for a reason, so maybe you could try trusting in his judgment a little more instead of treating him like a child that needs to be protected.”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She ruminated on his retort for a few beats as he rose to his feet to put the rod back. “True,” she said at last. She removed her feet from the water and slipped on her boots. “I’m just afraid that his judgment around love can be as blind as he is without his glasses. I don’t want him to be taken advantage of. That’s all.”

“You really don’t have to worry.” He flashed a grin. “I’m as committed to this as he is.”

Which, at the end of the day, was not at all. Both had something to gain from it, and both were willing to make it work for that end. Sure, Ignatz needed a little convincing, but it all worked out. They all won here, even if nobody else quite understood what they were playing at. He glanced up. Overhead, the Great Tree Moon arched in its waxing quarter, sailing above Saint Indech’s constellation. Another day gone. Another day toward the march to Gronder Field.

“I’m holding you to that,” she said, interrupting his musings. She appeared worried now, as if his feigned reassurances helped little in convincing her about his feelings.

“Thanks for the fishing lesson, by the way. You know, you really could hold lessons and charge folks to help pay off that debt of yours.”

“I would _never._ Withholding information about basic survival techniques to sell is,” she frowned, clicking her tongue, “I just can’t do that. But, you’re welcome, I guess. And really. Congratulations. I just needed to be sure Ignatz wasn’t making a mistake.”

In truth, Sylvain wondered if the so-called commoners many ranks below him were more valiant in spirit than every person who lived in luxury. But for that reason, they couldn’t play the manipulative game with such a stacked deck against them and remained close to impoverished for the rest of their lives. 

“Do you think he is?” he asked, just to sate his curiosity. “Making a mistake, I mean.”

She hummed. Another round of patrolman trudged by, and she regarded them with a smile before returning her attention to Sylvain. From the nearby lit torches, her orange eyes swirled with the flames, rendering it difficult to get an accurate reading of her actual feelings. They bore into his own, trying to catch glimpse of something within Sylvain that likely wasn’t there in hopes to prove herself wrong about him.

“I don’t know,” she answered at last, walking away. “You tell me.”

The silence spoke for him while she ascended the stairs two at a time, rounded the corner, and vanished from his line of sight.


	3. center serving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy monday all, back at it again with another sylvnatz chapter. shout-out to all y’all kind readers kudo’sers and commenters - this legit wouldn’t be possible without you. and so! without further ado, here be chapter three! pls enjoy, and lemme know what u think!

The grounds surrounding Garreg Mach, though bearing the brunt of the Empress’s initial onslaught, bore a trove of eerie beauty. Scorched trees persevered, hosting sprawling vines and sprouting new shoots brought by spring’s blessings. The slope of the hill dipped into the distance, where the last vestiges of villages cropped up in the horizon here and there, trying to move on from what razed them in the first place. Life found a way somehow.

Now if only Ignatz could translate such inspiration to get his traitorous hand to sketch _something._

Instead, as he sat on a moss-covered stone while his leg jittered, he found himself listening to the birds, his pencil still. Out here, no one whispered when he wandered by, tittering amongst themselves with questions like, _“How did he win over that Gautier’s heart?”_ Had he borrowed more of Felix’s utter lack of subtlety, he might have snapped back: _“You think this is a prize?!”_

For three days, his waltz beneath the scope of gossip became grotesquely overexposed, splashing his back with a large red target. His cheeks burned whenever someone glanced his way, always followed by those _whispers_ and _chortles_ and _glares_ that dug knives into his spine. He underestimated Sylvain’s promiscuous influence. Sure, he had a vague notion of how vast his connections spanned, but to this extent? The pencil scraped against parchment in one heavy, thick line, spanning across the page. It clipped off at the edge, falling to Ignatz’s side.

Well. He sighed. Not much he could do about it now. He agreed to Sylvain’s terms, and - like how he handled himself in the thick of battle - would see to it to the end. Adjusting to the attention was another hurdle in the turbulence of whatever this ploy turned out to be. He leaned back, pressing himself against the trunk of a long-dead tree, and stared upward at the steel skies. 

_Hopefully no one attempts to assassinate me because of this,_ he mused, and almost laughed at the thought. The idea of enduring five years of hardship and returning to the fray just to be slain by one of Sylvain’s enraged, jealous prospects - it was hilarious, if not downright terrifyingly plausible. Maybe he needed to reinforce his bedroom door and board up the window to sleep in peace.

“There you are.”

Imagine a lecherous demon, and thus he appeared. Sylvain steadied himself along the uneven grounds of the hillside, a box wedged under one arm and a rolled-up parchment clutched in his hand. Ignatz watched him draw closer, confused, as Sylvain set the box down beside him.

“A little birdy told me I’d find you here,” he explained. He unlatched the box and pulled out wrapped goodies. “And they told me you forget to eat when you’re totally not working towards becoming a world-famous artist.”

“I’m not,” Ignatz replied as predictably as the sun setting and rising each day. He closed his sketchbook and tucked it aside. A myriad of questions swirled in the stew of his thoughts, but his mouth only produced: “Why were you looking for me?”

“C’mon, Ignatz.” Sylvain nudged him with his elbow, grinning. “Why wouldn’t I be looking for my groom-to-be?”

“ _Sylvain._ ”

“Right, gotcha, save it for an audience. Here.” He handed him a wrap, overflowing with vegetables and curated meats. “Eat and listen, the professor,” he almost spat that word with unfounded disdain, “wanted me to talk to you about a few things.”

With great trepidation, Ignatz took one bite of the wrap and - and blinked. He took another bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Hummed. Some tomato juice squeezed onto his fingers, dribbling along their length as he took another chomp, his stomach relishing in the gift of delicious nourishment. When did he last eat again? He devoured about three-fourths of his meal before noticing the silence.

Sylvain was staring. Staring at him. Ignatz froze in place, the tip of his pinky propped delicately on his lips, realizing both his own rudeness and the absolute uncouth display of his eating habits. He swallowed hard, the rest of the wrap lowering.

“ _Wow,_ ” Sylvain said, eyebrows raised in amusement and surprise. “You sure can pack it away, huh? No wonder you’re besties with Raphael.”

“I am _so_ sorry,” he started, a torrent more ready to unleash from where that came from.

“Hey, don’t be.” A bizarre twinkle flickered in his copper eyes. “I appreciate that you like my food. I don’t cook for _anyone_ , I’ll have you know. Want to try some of this, too?” 

“You made - you made this.” Ignatz looked at the wrap’s remains. Of course he did; the cooks within the dining hall made large, hefty servings of fish these days, as their food rations grew more and more difficult to secure. He licked his lips as Sylvain placed a sealed bowl next to him.

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you?” came Ignatz’s belated gratitude. He finished the remainder of the wrap, and then: “You didn’t have to.”

“When that professor pulls you into one of their cooking moods, you really kind of _do_ have to.” Each time he referred to their hero in their darkest hour, the corners of his upper lip twitched. Ignatz wondered why; the professor didn’t mistreat anyone. “Which reminds me.” 

He peeled off parchment’s twine and unfurled it. With feigned gravitas, he cleared his throat and straightened his back. “To better suit your needs and protection,” he declared, in a pompous voice that could only be outmatched by Lorenz, “the Gautier House has instated a new battalion for Ignatz Victor, per the engagement and to ensure your well-being and protection prior to your marriage. This is per the declaration of Margrave Gautier himself, blah blah blah.” 

“Hold on a moment.” Ignatz gawked. “Your father - he, um, already received word?”

“Perks of being a noble, I guess. Faster carrier pigeons.” Sylvain winked. “Eat your soup, it’s going to get cold. Don’t waste my hard work.”

Ignatz pulled off its cover and brought the bowl to his lips, a torrent of questions and worry drowning out the flavorful broth. 

“Basically,” Sylvain continued, satisfied, “the professor received this earlier today. Since we’re essentially helping Faerghus by going after the Empire in a roundabout way, my father has some spare knights for you that will arrive, oh, in a few days or so. Before we set out to march, at any rate. Lucky you, eh?”

“I’m already in charge of another battalion.”

“Not for nothing, Igg - Ignatz,” he shook his head, “but after the last battle, your current one’s a little worse for wear. And I’ve experienced the capabilities of these men before. They’re good at what they do. Heck, they might make you even _more_ of a monster to pin down.” His grin slipped a fraction, brow furrowing. “We don’t know what to expect when we next head out. Don’t just depend on what you’re used to because it’s easier when they need a break. Okay?”

The seriousness laced in his words forced Ignatz to pay attention. For a second, Sylvain sounded like a carefully considerate soldier, one who sought the safety of his comrades despite his own foolish antics. In fact - Ignatz replayed a few previous battles in his head, memories catching glimpses of red hair - if he recalled correctly, Sylvain had the tendency to charge ahead of the others even if it was to his tactical disadvantage. In those moments, Ignatz thought the same thing: _Is he being reckless on purpose?_

The professor heralded him as an observant man. Ignatz downplayed the sincerity in their words, chalking it up to mere off-base assumptions on others. But right now, as he sipped on his soup that he couldn’t determine the taste of, staring back at Sylvain, he came to his worrisome conclusion. Yes. Yes, he was being foolish on purpose. 

_Why?_

“But what about your own men?” he asked instead. He set the emptied bowl back into the travel box. “Didn’t they suffer numerous losses as well?”

“Mm.” Sylvain stretched, turning his head away. “I’ll figure something out. Being in charge of a battalion is sometimes more hassle than it’s worth - for me, at least. Maybe I’ll ask our wonderful tactician squad to just remove it altogether so I can get further ahead without worrying so much.” 

“They can offer you some degree of better protection,” Ignatz countered. 

“Do I look like _I_ really need that?” Sylvain rolled one shoulder, then the other, before returning his unreadable stare back at Ignatz. “I know how to handle myself, trust me.”

_Do you?_ Ignatz licked his lips, salt and parsley prominent on his tongue. He wiped the sweat on his palms along his pants. _You can’t even handle yourself against an old woman demanding a reason for you and her daughter’s one-night stand._

But none of those questions saw fruition. They evaporated as quickly as they came, rendering Ignatz silent. The stare lingered for several moments too long, and Ignatz broke away first, uncertain. Sylvain, he determined, was as difficult to understand as trying to catch a ripple between your fingertips. Elusive, and ever-changing. 

A water droplet struck his left lens, followed by another. He glanced upward and squawked as the rain unleashed buckets upon them.

“Hah!” Sylvain’s grin reappeared, quashing his humorless expression. He grabbed Ignatz’s sketchbook and the Magrave’s declaration before shoving them both into the box for safekeeping. “You should’ve seen the look on your face! Didn’t you ask Lysithea for her weather predictions this morning?”

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms right now,” Ignatz muttered under his breath, too soft for Sylvain to hear. It was entirely his fault, snapping at her like that. If Lorenz mastered the art of carefully plucked words, Lysithea proved to be his antithesis, always spouting what was on her mind. Sometimes, she got a little too close for comfort in her rantings. Still, he should have never raised his voice at her; everyone handled stress differently, and what she needed was _patience,_ not… whatever that was. He hoisted up his cape in some semblance of cover. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” Sylvain, after gathering the rest of their scattered belongings and closing up the box, tilted his head. “What’re you apologizing for this time?”

“If I had known, I would have been indoors to sketch. You came to look for me, and now you’re soaked.”

“Huh.” He pursed his lips, seemingly nonchalant that his clearly carefully parted hair now performed its best “shaggy wet dog” impersonation. “Gee, Ignatz. I sure didn’t realize you’re the weather god. Should I bring you lunch every day for more offerings since you’re clearly responsible for causing the downpour?”

“Ah.” The rain made quick work of his cape, drenching it. “Um. Sorry, I just - I thought -”

“Ignatz.” Sylvain, after a moment’s deliberation, reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize every other breath for things that are outside of your control. Okay?” He released his hand, but the spot he touched still burned under wet fabric. “C’mon, let’s head back and find some spare clothes. We’re late for stable duty.”

“Stable duty?” He followed after Sylvain, wishing for his glasses to not fog-up during their expedition. Gods, the last thing he needed was to inconvenience his stranger of a fiance any further. 

“Did I forget to mention that bit? Yeah, so.” Sylvain’s boot sank through a rotted log, sparing Ignatz the effort of trying to hop over it with reduced visibility. “Hilda thought it’d be _hilarious_ if she delegated us two to the task instead of Marianne and Ingrid. Trust me,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “I tried to get you out of it. Really. But then _Claude_ and the professor agreed to it too, and hey, I can’t argue against them. Ever tried playing chess with them?”

“No?”

“Don’t. You’ll lose faster than the Death Knight against Dark Spikes.” He swiped his bangs aside before propelling himself over the divet in Garreg Mach’s crumbled wall. “Basically, trying to persuade them out of what _they_ think is a good idea is like challenging them to a round of chess. Need a hand?”

He never breached the grounds through this secret entrance before, mostly because while Sylvain had the right height to clear it, Ignatz most certainly did not. He hooked his boot onto the slick stone, hands planted on the edge for support. He mentally counted to three and, lacking all the grace of a proper knight, launched himself over the wall and planted his face squarely into Sylvain’s chest.

A beat passed.

“Well well,” Sylvain raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t think it’d be this quick for you to _fall_ for me, but life’s just full of surprises.”

Ignatz balked and pushed himself away. _“Sylvain,_ ” he admonished, fixing his crooked glasses. His ears burned. “It - I didn’t mean -”

“You should practice asking for help more often,” he continued, dropping his flirtations immediately. He turned on his heel and strode up the walkway toward the church’s grounds. Ignatz, after taking a breather to collect himself, followed. Gods. What karma had he wrought to be entangled with this absolute - this total -

He lacked proper words to describe it other than “mess.” And, he lamented as he caught up with Sylvain and prepared himself for the half-whispered conversations to follow in their wake, it would only grow messier.

***

He named the horse Adalhard. Marianne told him it meant “brave” and “hardy” when he asked her for assistance in the process. After he passed the certification to become a bow knight, he met the creature whose countenance possessed an air of respect and valiance in spades. His white coat glimmered in all manners of light, even in the thickest fogs or muddiest roads, and his mane never sported a tangle in its fluffy majesty.

Frankly, the horse touted more bravery than Ignatz would ever muster in his lifetime. He felt terrible that Adalhard’s reigns were passed to _him_ instead of the likes of Lorenz or Ashe. Sometimes, he wondered if Adalhard held the same attitude, often snorting whenever Ignatz approached. He lacked the gift of animal communication that Marianne had, and while he tried to be a good owner, his efforts felt disappointing.

Still. He rolled up his sleeves, bristled brush in hands to give him a thorough pampering. Adalhard became his responsibility, whether the horse liked it or not. He never had pets before because his older brother was allergic, and the weight of being a first-time owner pressured him. But becoming a knight required such skills, so failing wasn’t an option, either.

Adalhard’s tail flicked. Ignatz took it to be a, _Stop thinking so much and brush me already, you incompetent buffoon._

“Right, right,” he said, chuckling at himself. “I’m sorry.” 

The stables were cleaner than his own room after several strenuous hours of scrubbing the floors and beams. Sylvain commented how much he _hated_ unorganized spaces and doubled down on their efforts to make the place sparkle. Something about it soothed him, the dull monotonous task of scraping stains away chasing away his anxieties. No wonder Marianne volunteered for the position so often. Brushing Adalhard gave a similar sensation; the sound of the bristles smoothing out his fur accompanied by the rain cleared his thoughts into a blank slate. Moments like that were precious and fleeting in a war.

War. 

Right. His hand stilled as he rose to his feet, going to Adalhard’s other side. He wondered how many former classmates they might need to face in the future. Hubert came to mind, his intimidating aura and his powerful spells giving Ignatz the shudders. Did he have what it took to pelt the man with arrows to death, if it came to that?

Of course, that was assuming he would live long enough in such a confrontation. While he knew his abilities compared to five years ago were nothing to sneeze at anymore, and while he knew he could stand his ground against many a faceless soldier, taking aim at a former acquaintance - even one as frightening as Hubert - seemed arduous. Painful. 

He wondered how Sylvain felt gutting Ferdinand.

He wondered if he could have done - could _do_ \- the same.

To his right stood Sylvain’s horse; a beautiful, black mare whose rugged body and night-colored eyes peered into the very souls she gazed into. Her side bore a scar from Ferdinand’s feeble counterattack as a reminder of Sylvain’s deeds. Yet she stood tall, unphased by the bloodshed that occurred around her or the injuries she accumulated. Her blithe demeanor reminded him of Sylvain’s own. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

“If it gets rough out there, you promise me to run away, won’t you?” he whispered into Adalhard’s coat. “I don’t want you dying on my behalf.”

Another snort - _As if I would die so easily,_ he interpreted. Of course, he knew not a word of horse-enese; he could have said _Like I’d stick around and die for you in the first place._ Why did Adalhard sound so similar to Lysithea sometimes? Ah, Lysithea. He still needed to apologize to her about his outburst - 

“Grub time!”

A pair of trunks for arms wrapped themselves around Ignatz’s waist and lifted him up off his stool. He let out an unintelligible yelp, legs flailing, as an unamused Adalhard whinnied in disapproval. 

“Hey there, Ignatz!” Raphael’s gloriousness beamed literal rays of sunshine even as the skies cried around them. “Didn’t see you in the dining hall yet, so I figured I’d swing by and pick you up. Uh, not literally, that was more spur of the moment.” He set him down and patted the wrinkles off Ignatz’s tunic. “You don’t wanna miss today’s dinner, though. It’s your favorite!”

Lately, it’s _always_ been Ignatz’s favorite, what with the booming surplus of fish swimming in the church’s pond. He smiled at Raphael’s enthusiasm regardless. Ever since the tension between them - or rather, within Ignatz - around the truth of Raphael’s parents ebbed, they started talking more. Just like when they were kids. It comforted him “Thank you.”

“I made sure to talk to the kitchen staff to save you a plate before coming here,” he rambled on, then glanced at Adalhard. “Heyyyy, big buddy! Who’s a good horsey? Don’t I have a gift for you!” He produced an apple from his pocket, to which Adalhard chomped at greedily. Be it people or animals, Raphael never failed to make someone happy. Ignatz’s smile softened as Raphael patted his fur. “Man, Ignatz. You’ve gotten so good at taking care of him. Look how _shiny_ he is.”

“That’s just how he is,” Ignatz dismissed. 

“Not as shiny if it weren’t for you.” Raphael gave Adalhard one more pat before putting his hands on his hips. “But now it’s time to make _you_ shine. By eating. I swear that made more sense in my head.”

“Never change, Raphael.” He picked up his horse-care supplies and stored them away safely. It had been a little while since they last ate dinner together. Ignatz made a point to avoid eating at the dining hall because - _oh._ The reality of his current predicament made his face pale. “Um,” he said, “how busy is it in there right now?”

Raphael’s mouth opened, ready to give his hearty answer, before it clomped shut. He hummed in thought, scratching at his cheek. “Something up, Ignatz? You’ve got that ‘I don’t wanna’ look on your face again.” Before Ignatz could conjure up an excuse, he continued, “Wait a second - is this because you’re getting married? Are people giving you a hard time? Look,” he shook Ignatz by the shoulders, “it’s not just you who’s going against traditions, yeah? Shamir and Catherine are all buddy-buddy, too. If someone’s being mean to you about that, I’ll give ‘em a good talking to, and -”

“Breathe, Raphael!” Ignatz batted his hands. Catherine and Shamir? He never imagined those two being intimate; then again, Shamir’s private life wasn’t exactly something she boasted at any given second. How did Raphael get that information in the first place? “It’s not - it’s not because we’re, um, men or - it’s not that.” 

“Then what’s the big deal? Oh, hold on, I think,” his face scrunched up with concerted effort, rattling the few brain cells not devoted to weight training or food, “I think I get it. It’s because you’re two different classes. _I_ see. Listen, Ignatz, you just have to prove them wrong about how they think you’re not worthy of his noble hand. Easy-peasy!”

The conversation was getting nowhere fast. While Raphael always stood in Ignatz’s corner, his enthusiasm in its unwaning cheer sometimes drowned out the actual solutions to problems. “I’m not sure that even if I _was_ a noble, people wouldn’t whisper about it.”

“They think _you yourself_ is unworthy?” Raphael’s jaw might hit the floor at that rate. “That’s silly! Anyone is incredibly lucky to be marrying you.” Debatable, but - “My point still stands - if you prove them wrong, they’ll stop. When it comes to love,” oh gods, Ignatz didn’t have the heart to confide the truth that _none_ of this was about love, “you have to _showcase_ it. Flourish him with adoration! In moderation. Lorenz is a bit over-the-top in my opinion, but you’re the complete opposite. I haven’t even seen you two share a table.”

He winced. “That would probably make it worse -”

“I have an idea.” Raphael, undeterred, pulled Ignatz out of the stables and back into the lightened rain. “It’ll get them to stop running their mouths about things they clearly don’t understand. But before that, I’m _starving._ We’ll go over the plan after eating, alright?”

Goddess, save him. His face seared red in a mixture of embarrassment and anxiety, singing the tips of his ears. When Raphael grew determined to “fix” something, he became a relentless force of nature that stopped at nothing to complete it. The very fact that Raphael had an _idea_ meant that the stone already started rolling down, down, down the hill, aimed to strike Ignatz’s newfound and undesired audience into silence somehow. He could only imagine how.

And all to spare a fake relationship from gossip. He needed to come clean to at _least_ Raphael, to explain this ruse was just another one of Sylvain’s screw ups, that he accepted the consequences of agreeing for the chance meeting of one of his favorite artists, that he should handle it himself - 

_You should practice asking for help more often,_ came Sylvain’s voice, reasonable for once. Ignatz swallowed hard. 

“Okay,” he answered quietly instead, and the rain at last dissipated.


	4. limb tip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy monday, everyone! how’s everyone doing? thank u for all the comments and kudos - they make me incredibly happy to see people on board with this, so I appreciate it and will continue to do my best for u! so, without further ado, here be chapter four! pls enjoy, and lemme know what u think!

So Sylvain fibbed a little. So what? Ignatz never _asked_ to look at the so-called declaration about giving him the Gautier Knights. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. If they were already scheduled for arrival weeks prior, if they were supposed to be for _Sylvain’s_ use even though he really, _really_ didn’t want them - who cared? Not him. 

Apparently, the Goddess’s Greatest Gift to Mankind sure did. The professor paced in the tactic’s room, encircling the tables and chairs with a scowl on their face. Good. Seeing them like this tickled a small petty spot Sylvain carried in his heart. They eyed the map, the one depicting all of Fódlan in its glory, and sighed.

“You need the protection,” they said.

“You need to respect my decisions,” he argued back.

“Do you need to be removed from the front lines?”

“Friends, friends.” Claude, surrounded by a mountain of torn-open envelopes and stamped letters, peered up from his makeshift prison. To be the leader of an entire nation was an unenviable position; Sylvain witnessed Claude wrangle the needs of bullheaded nobles with rehearsed practice and grace he could never hope to master himself. “I understand where you are coming from,” he said, directed to Sylvain, “but Byleth is right. You _do_ need protection.”

“The last battle was a fluke.”

“If by ‘last battle,’ you mean _every_ battle,” chimed in Linhardt, who gave a punctual yawn before he readjusted the wooden pieces decorating Gronder Field. His dead-tired eyes graced Sylvain with their unimpressed stare as he continued, “Remember who’s the lead healer here. Stop making me work more than I have to.”

Why was he promoted to lead _anything_ in the first place? The guy could barely stay awake for three hours at a time and complained whenever he exerted himself for all of five minutes. Then again, their only other options boiled down to either Marianne or Mercedes - neither of whom seemed willing to take a demanding position. But why would Linhardt accept? He hated duties the most out of anyone.

Well. That much was obvious, once he really thought about it. He laced his fingers behind his head and cocked an eyebrow. “What you’re _really_ saying is that you’d prefer to run your hands all over someone else, am I right?” Linhardt’s eyes sharpened in warning, but Sylvain continued with all the recklessness of a toddler wielding a knife, “Wonder who that could be. Name starts with a ‘B’, ends with a -?”

“We will give you the Alliance Knights instead,” the professor interjected. “They may hamper your magical aptitude some, but it will not be anything devastating to your skills. It will also grant you some additional -”

“You already gave them to Ingrid, remember?” Sylvain _tsk’_ d. “Really, professor, isn’t remembering the details your job?”

Nonplussed, the professor rebuked: “She’s been reclassed to a pegasus knight and can no longer use them.”

Ah. His smug victory quashed, he instead decided to look out the window, licking his lips. No wonder they went along with removing Ingrid from stable duty to something else. It made more sense for her to be riding a pegasus, enabling her more movement on the battlefield to help those who weren’t strong enough to land kills. He spread his legs and slumped further into his chair.

“I’ll sign off the paperwork with the battalion changes today, then.” The professor, despite Sylvain’s persistent jabs, gave him a smile. “But before you leave, there is another matter we need to discuss.”

The sternness in their voice tried to get his attention. He promptly ignored it, copying Linhardt’s tactical yawn before deigning to spare their leader a glance. “Is it about that ghost army you’re all worried about showing up? If you think I’m going to defect or anything like that, don’t worry so much. I’m not stupid enough to fight for the losing side with a bunch of dead men walking.”

The professor remained still for a moment, palm pressed against the map’s edge. He loathed that blank expression, one where he couldn’t get a vibe on their thoughts. People were supposed to be _easy_ to read: Felix’s never-ending scowl and words to match (but meant something else entirely), Ingrid’s dedicated yet tiresome knightly antics behind every smile, Dimitri’s--he pushed the memories aside. _Dimitri’s dead,_ he weakly attempted to convince himself. _There is no army._ _He’s dead._

Kind of like how the professor should be.

_Maybe there was a miracle for him too,_ cooed an irritating shadow of himself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop himself from digging his nails into his scalp to get the damn thing to _shut up already._

“That is another concern, yes,” they confirmed. “I understand his importance to you, even now. But hearing your resolve is reassuring.”

“Another concern? Then what’s the _real_ concern?”

In through the swinging doors arrived the intruder Hilda, letting out the utmost disgruntled sigh with her hands thrown haphazardly into the air. Her heels clomped against the floor with exaggerated stomps, storming up to the council table and slamming her hands right beside Linhardt. Everyone turned in her direction, awaiting her oncoming tirade with bated breath. 

“How much you want to bet she failed conning someone into helping her,” Sylvain whispered to Claude behind his hand.

“I don’t take bets I can’t win,” Claude whispered back with a wink.

“Can you _believe,”_ Hilda scoffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder, “that no one wants to take over rubble duty for me? _Me!_ I even asked the _gatekeeper,_ and he was all, ‘oh, greetings, Ms. Goneril, something to report, I really can’t do that right now because my _back hurts.’_ His _back_ hurts?” The corner of her upper lip twitched. “How does he think _I_ feel? I broke a _nail_ in our last skirmish, and _somebody,”_ she grabbed Linhardt’s shoulders and shook him vigorously, “was all ‘you’re not dying.’ Well! I _will_ be if I jam my poor little finger against rock, huh!”

“Be it far from me to interrupt the Goddess’s will for who must ascend from their mortal coil while doing yard work,” Linhardt drawled. He batted her hand. “Let go of me.”

“You’re the _worst,_ ” she shook him a few more times for good measure, “the _worst,_ Linny. I’m demoting you.”

“Oh no. This is by far the biggest tragedy in my entire life. What am I ever going to do with my now considerably ample free time.”

“Did I say demoting? I meant _promoting._ No objections there, right, Professor? You could use a vacation like little old me. He could run the army for a week, don’t you think?”

The professor tilted their head in consideration, expression betraying nothing in the beats of silence that followed. Linhardt froze in his seat, his face trying and failing to not show an ounce of distress about the possibility, while Hilda’s cheshire grin widened. Claude snorted and shrugged before tearing open yet another letter to add to his parchment graveyard.

“As I was saying,” the professor said, returning their attention to Sylvain.

“Ugh, seriously!” Hilda pouted. “You’re a professor, you can’t play _favorites._ ”

The professor inclined their head. “I am not your professor anymore, I am your commander. I’m not bound by those obligations anymore.” A pause. “And I don’t play favorites,” they tacked on.

“That’s a load of pegasus dung,” Hilda grumbled, folding her arms across her chest while Linhardt smirked.

“Can you go over the current strategy with her? She needs to be aware of her position,” the professor instructed, and Linhardt gave a short nod. Satisfied, they moved to sit next to Sylvain, who was busy enjoying the show and not interested in whatever was coming next, thank you very much. With key players like these, how could they _not_ lose? He allowed his head to drop back, side-eying his current nuisance of the hour. 

“The current issue,” the professor said, leaning forward, “is the matter of your, ah. Engagement, I think it is.”

Well, that was a turn for the interesting. “What about it?”

They fiddled with the hem of their coat hanging off their shoulders. Tapped their foot. Readjusted their funny little hat they received on the first day they were enlisted into a position they _clearly_ weren’t qualified for. “Truth be told,” they said at last, hands settling into their lap, “I don’t really understand such things quite yet. But what I do know is that feelings create biases we don’t intend to have no matter how objective we try to be.”

The build-up was entirely unnecessary. Sylvain frowned. “And?”

“And so, I’m repositioning you to be closer to Ignatz so you two can work in tandem with a lesser chance of you or him abandoning your positions to protect each other. We don’t want a repeat of what happened with… However,” they smoothed the wrinkles littering their skirt, allowing the sentence thread to remain unsaid, “given how little you two actually fought together before, this is a high-risk situation for all of us. I need you two to have a serious conversation regarding each other’s tactics and planning for the upcoming battle. Linhardt already made a strategy, but,” they handed Sylvain the details scrawled in exhaustive handwriting, “I want to make sure you two can make it work.”

“Another reading assignment, eh? You sure you’re not a professor still?” He skimmed over the surprisingly in-depth suggestions all for a duo that didn’t technically exist. He pursed his lips. “You go over all this with Iggy yet?”

“Tracking him down when he’s possibly painting is somewhat difficult,” the professor confessed, “but I did leave the details in his room for him to find. Still, I would like you two to talk about it and confirm with us that it will work. I know it’s last-minute, but all things considered, your public announcement of your relationship was _also_ a bit last-minute.”

To be fair, it kind of sort of happened last-minute, too. How the heck was he supposed to predict some mother yacking up a torrential fury when he wasn’t quite awake yet? And really, if _anyone_ was to blame - his glance shifted to Hilda, who looked ready to bang her broad forehead off the table any second now - it was hers, not his. The entire marriage prospect never crossed his mind. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said instead, grinning. “Things happen.”

The professor’s pressing stare resurfaced. Looking at it for too long gave Sylvain either the creeps or a desire to maybe stab them in the throat, but he couldn’t determine which still. Someone might tell him he was acting like a child, bearing his unfounded anger on the professor like this over something they knew nothing about. But in fairness, Sylvain was never permitted to _be_ a child in the first place (except for _those days,_ where Dimitri -), so really, he was just playing catch-up at this point. 

“Things do happen,” they replied, nodding once. “Expected or otherwise.”

“Are we done here?” He waved the plans in front of their face. “I’ve got some new light reading to do.”

“We are.” The professor rose from their seat. Their mouth opened, a faint utterance of a dying word on their lips, before they settled on just a smile - albeit too gentle and too fragile for Sylvain’s liking. “Once we’re able to press on, I’d like to help you two with the celebration, if at all possible. But I’m afraid holding the ceremony next month might be a little difficult, all things considered. Have you considered postponing it?”

Yeah, they had a point. Prolonging their engagement might give Ignatz a hernia or six, though; the guy almost passed out at the prospect of three months alone when Sylvain hatched his plan. He stood up, stretched, and rolled his shoulder. “It’s going to be on the small side anyways,” he said. “The sooner we get it over with, the better.”

“ _What?_ ” Hilda, who apparently tuned out Linhardt before they even began, gawked. “On the _small side?_ The sooner, the better? Excuse me? You’re getting _married._ Swearing to be with the one you _love,_ ” her enunciation of the word crawled along Sylvain’s skin, as if emphasizing just how badly he screwed up, “for the rest of your _life._ It needs to be extravagant! Don’t you agree, Linny?”

“I agree this conversation holds absolutely zero interest to me.”

“She’s right,” Claude added, because of _course_ he would, “it’s a pretty big deal. I kinda thought you two would be the last people to ever get married for two entirely different reasons, but hey. Might as well go all-out.”

“I’m sure we have some extra gold in our coffers to spare, right?” She batted her eyes at Linhardt, who continued in his best impersonation of a brick wall. “It needs to be _lavish._ ”

“I don’t think Ignatz would like that,” Sylvain countered. “He’s the type to prefer _less_ attention, not more.”

“Listen to you, such a kind and considerate fiance!” She tittered and sauntered over, patting his back a few times. The devilish gleam in her eyes read, _You’re in so deep you’re going to drown here whether you like it or not._ “You two are _so_ meant to be. Well. Even a small ceremony can have all the glitz and glamour of a large one! Say, how about I be your planner, hm? I’ll delegate all the roles down to the very last detail to make sure it goes off without a hitch.”

“If it’s going to be small, you might as well host it at the gazebo.” Linhardt decided to add, contradicting his earlier disinterest. “Lots of ideal spots to take a nap in around there. Oh, and it’s pretty enough if you remove all the telltale signs of war.” 

“What a good idea, Linny! Here, gimme your pen.” She yanked it out of his hands and grabbed a spare piece of parchment, scribbling things down. “Not to mention it’s close enough to the dining hall for the reception. Raphael’s going to _love_ that. But we might need to get dear ol’ Seteth’s permission to do any of this first, huh? Too bad Lady Rhea’s still missing. Asking her would be _so_ much easier. And less scary.”

Missing? Not necessarily; everyone in the room had a vague inkling that Miss Emperor must have taken her captive five years ago during the siege. The Empire never declared her deceased in action, something that would clearly boost morale amongst their forces. Why keep her around then? But those thoughts weren’t Sylvain’s to ponder on. He decided to leave it to the big brains of the army, putting it aside for apparently more pressing matters at hand.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said. “Since you’re so enthusiastic about taking charge. Much appreciated. Lemme know what you come up with next time, yeah?”

Hilda blinked once while her pen stilled, realizing the responsibility she undertook _willingly_ (and possibly on accident). Served her right. He winked and took the opportunity to slink out of the room before she could wriggle herself out of it with her charms.

The airy corridors echoed with each step, the stairwell resonating with the clinks of his armor as he descended. He never liked the acoustics in this part of the church. It reminded him of the well back home, the enclosed grime-coated stones and the shallow waters he sat in for hours upon hours. In the long shadows, he spotted the visage of Mikhail’s furious eyes looking down on him, spittle dripping like a broken bottle of poison from his lips. But shadows nor dead men couldn’t speak. He stepped on the fading eyes of his brother’s corpse and gazed out the curve of the opened swinging doors, where the remains of Garreg Mach’s shambled army tried to live in the hopes that everything would be all right in the end.

That in less than two weeks, not everything would go to hell.

(“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he told Ferdinand, his Lance of Ruin pulsing in his grip. “If you come with us, maybe together we can show the Empress a different path forward for Fódlan’s future.”

“You ought to try speaking with more belief in your words,” Ferdinand countered, pulling on the reigns of his horse. “Perhaps then I would bother pretending to believe them for even a second.”)

He inhaled slowly, ignoring the taste of copper on his tongue and focusing on the scent of the blooming lavender hedges. Ferdinand perished with honor and in the belief he was right. Admirable, but Sylvain would never understand. If he died right now, if the Goddess decided to have a chandelier crash upon his head, just what beliefs would die with him? And if he had nothing, would that change if or when he died in action in Gronder?

If anything, it’d get him out of his marriage. A win for Ignatz, no doubt.

Speaking of. Familiar pale green hair caught the corner of his eye, prompting him to turn his head toward the very gardens Linhardt suggested to host the ceremony. Ignatz almost blended in with his surroundings, but the easel gave him away. Another new painting? Sylvain stepped forward before he thought to do Ignatz a favor and give him much-needed space.

“Flowers this time?”

Ignatz didn’t respond. His brush dabbed against the pinks and purples on his palette before his brow furrowed at the current project before him. He _hm’d_ and _haw’d_ before coating his brush with a little more white to make the shade somewhat lighter. With finessed strokes, the flower steadily came to life, almost popping from the canvas, almost _tangible._ Sylvain found himself holding his breath at Ignatz’s work, eyes following each curve and sweep of the bristles. A lump formed in his throat, and the meticulous tactics crinkled in his hand.

“You should do commissions,” he blurted, and Ignatz - being Ignatz - yelped mid-stroke, the line of color jutting across the canvas and ruining the detail he spent the past twenty or so minutes on. “Uh,” he said, Ignatz whipping his head with wide eyes in Sylvain’s direction. “In my defense, I did try to get your attention sooner?”

“Sylvain,” Ignatz exhaled, shoulders slumping. He worried his bottom lip when he looked at the gauche stroke running from the canvas’s center to its edge. He shook his head. “I’m sorry for not hearing you sooner,” he said instead of chewing Sylvain out like he rightfully deserved. “I was a bit focused.”

“No, look, _I’m_ sorry. I keep startling you when you’re in the middle of something. Can you fix it?” Probably not. The negative space Ignatz seemed so keen on promoting could no longer be recovered naturally. 

“If I added another bushel here? Mm.” He sighed, then gave Sylvain his more pathetic smiles in his expression repertoire. “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t anything all too special, anyways. Did you need something?”

“No, I’m worrying about it.” He removed one of his gloves and rubbed the edge of the canvas. Ignatz appeared to prefer older materials, settling for the cheaper hemp rather than the booming business of cotton canvas. The paints, on the other hand - there was the real bite to the coffers, right there. Especially such decadent hues. Purples and blues sold for such exuberant prices that it wouldn’t surprise him if Ignatz made the paints himself. “Is your afternoon free?”

“I’m always free,” came the immediate reply, followed by the stumbling, “I mean - that is - I don’t have a set schedule, but I train and do what I should to prepare like everyone else, I’m not shirking -”

“Relax.” He almost wanted to laugh. The seriousness Ignatz carried with every conversation must get exhausting from time to time. “I’m not about to call you a procrastinator - that’d make me a _bit_ of a hypocrite. I was wondering if you wanted to come shopping in town with me.”

Ignatz’s widened eyes almost filled the frames of his glasses. “Shopping?”

“It’s my fault for causing that.” He jerked his head toward the misplaced glob of paint. “Let me pay for it and get you some replacements. And,” he held up his forefinger before Ignatz could get a word in, “I’m not taking no or an ‘it’s alright’ for an answer. Got it?”

He saw the machinations of Ignatz’s thoughts churn like a storm at sea all over his face. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, thumb running along his paint brush’s handle. Both his avenues for easing Sylvain’s (definitely not) guilt stripped from him, he mumbled, “If it’s really alright with you.”

“Trust me,” he said, the two most hilarious sequential words to ever come from his mouth, “if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered. C’mon, I’ll help you carry your stuff back.”

***

This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. He should be reviewing battle tactics like a good little soldier and review them with his fake fiance. Instead, he soaked up the bright sunshine on their little jaunt into town on a quest for artistic repentance. 

With the little extra aid from the church, the village to the south of Garreg Mach’s gate cleaned up as nicely as Manuela during yet another morning hangover. The shopping district bore their scars visibly with boards over broken windows and mismatched wood planks nailed into walls to cover holes. Sylvain knew that once the war ended, the winning team would have their hands full trying to reassure the common folk that, sure, they’d lend more assistance - as if they wouldn’t already be stretched thin from bonding the fractured Fódlan together with lackluster adhesives.

He’d like to see the staunch Her Highness Edelgard try her luck with that as revenge for dismantling the Kingdom. Of course, that meant the destruction of the Alliance, which definitely wouldn’t bode well for his already piss-poor chances of survival.

(Not that he cared.)

“How do you do it?”

Ignatz’s inquiry interjected itself into Sylvain’s musings. He glanced at him with a puzzled look, awaiting elaboration.

“I mean,” Ignatz continued, waving his hand, “ignoring the - there’s a lot of women staring.”

“I’m a popular guy, what can I say?” By staring, he probably meant glaring, upset by their dashed nonexistent chances to this _clearly_ inferior four-eyed knight wannabe with nothing to his name. All the glitter and glory of becoming a noble, gone like the pope. “Why, is it bothering you?”

“Not really.” So definitely, in Ignatz-speak. He adjusted his glasses and shrunk in his cape. Leonie was right; he could hardly handle any ounce of attention thrown his way, good or bad. It didn’t help that everyone was _talking,_ too, shooting furtive glances at the grooms-to-be and judging Ignatz for all he was worth. Maybe they needed a little more convincing about how “serious” he was. “Um. Sylvain?” 

“Yeah?”

“You’re. My.” He flopped his arm. “Your hand -”

Clammy. Ignatz’s hand was almost drenched in anxious sweat, accumulating puddles in the valleys between his fingers. Sylvain wondered how the guy survived day-to-day life under any kind of pressure. Maybe he got used to it. Maybe this was his _normal,_ which sounded nightmarish. Someone like him deserved a different life, one far away from bloodied fields and piled corpses. Subconsciously, Sylvain’s thumb swiped over Ignatz’s knuckles.

“You want them to stop, right?” he asked in a lowered voice. “They’ll get the picture if we act more like a genuine couple.”

Ignatz swallowed hard, the bob of his Adam’s apple visible. “Right,” he muttered, squeezing Sylvain’s hand in a death grip, “Raphael advised something similar to me last night. I’m sorry, I’m just - this is the first time I’ve…”

Upon filling in the blanks of Ignatz’s half-finished sentence, Sylvain stopped in his tracks. “Seriously? You’re kidding.”

“This is my first ‘serious’ relationship,” Ignatz admitted. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Or what to do, for that matter.”

It was so hilarious it almost made Sylvain weep. Goddess, of all people to pluck out from his mind’s imaginary hat for this ruse, it had to be one of the _least_ experienced men in all of Fódlan. “So, in that case, you never kissed before?” he questioned, curiosity getting the best of him. “Like, not even once?”

“Well, I - when I was a child, Raphael’s sister gave me a peck on the cheek.” His face flushed. “But I guess that wouldn’t really count, would it?”

Sylvain blinked one. Twice. How was that even possible? Did not one lady actually look him over and think to herself, _Wow, what a total stud?_ No way. His eyes narrowed in disbelief, mouth hanging open. “Not even after the school dance? If I remember right, you danced with at least _one_ girl. Didn’t you two go to the Goddess Tower to pal around or _anything?_ ”

“I danced with the professor for one song, but that’s it. I went back to my room almost immediately after because,” he resumed walking toward one of the shops near the end of the main district, “well, I was exhausted, and that sort of stimulation can get overwhelming after awhile.”

“Ignatz.” He trailed after him, feeling the clamminess between their hands subside a little. “When this is all said and done with, I’m _definitely_ going to help you get at least one real date, I promise you.”

A little rusted bell jingled overhead to announce their arrival. The shopkeep seemed familiar with Ignatz, giving him a quick wave in acknowledgment before resuming tidying up her counterspace. All the walls bore various canvas sizes, and the salvaged wooden tables hosted an overflowing surplus of artistic supplies. Ignatz glanced over his shoulder and gave a sheepish smile, releasing Sylvain’s hand.

“I appreciate it,” he said, picking up a bottle of sky-blue paint, “but you really shouldn’t do something so fruitless as the impossible.”

He sounded so sincere and so honest that, in that moment, something within Sylvain - possibly the last semblance that remained his sanity - snapped, a stray thought declaring: _I want to show this guy just how much he deserves to think better of himself,_ followed by, _I want to show everyone how unlucky they are that they didn’t think twice about him._

“You know me,” he replied, idly plucking a vial of soft green paint off the table and holding it up to compare to Ignatz’s hair, “I’m always willing to do the stupidest thing imaginable, like challenging the impossible.”


End file.
